Alistair appears on the other side, moving just as cautiously. Our eyes meet over Hamish’s woolly back. Silent agreement.
On three.
One. Two. Thr?—
Hamish chooses that exact moment to spin around.
We both lunge—and slam straight into each other as the sheep darts between our legs with the agility of a professional rugby player.
I hit the floor hard, with Alistair partially on top of me.
For a second, everything freezes.
His face is inches from mine. His eyes wide. Mine probably are too.
“Sorry,” he mutters, pushing himself up quickly and offering his hand.
This time, I take it. His grip is warm, steady, and he pulls me up like I weigh nothing.
“Your sheep is an escape artist,” he grumbles, brushing dust off his suit.
“Mysheep? I refuse all responsibility for that four-legged menace. He belongs to my brother.”
A loud crash—followed by a triumphant bleat—cuts me off.
“Hamish!” I yell, already running.
We burst into a small storage room. Buckets overturned. Tools scattered. Total chaos.
Hamish stands in the middle of it all, looking deeply pleased with himself—and chewing what appears to be a work glove.
This time, Alistair doesn’t hesitate. He dives.
He wraps both arms around Hamish before the sheep can react. Hamish lets out an outraged bleat and thrashes like a maniac.
“A little help would be nice!” Alistair grunts.
I grab Hamish’s front legs.
“You have no idea how much you’re going to regret this,” I mutter into his ear. “Your grazing privileges are officially revoked.”
Hamish looks at me like that’s adorable.
Together, we haul him out of the warehouse and into the loading yard behind the building. The main gate is closed.
“No more escape routes,” Alistair says, slightly out of breath.
Hamish stares at us, utterly unimpressed.
Alistair drags a hand through his now thoroughly disheveled hair. “I think this is the first time a McGregor has caused this much damage in my distillery… and it’s not even a human.”
I can’t help it—I laugh.
“This is nothing. You’ve clearly never heard of the Great Incident of 1987. My grandfather ‘accidentally’ dumped a full barrel of malt onto your grandfather’s shoes during a tasting.”
Alistair blinks—then smiles.
And that’s when it hits me.
